


Knowing

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: Whenever she switches on the war rig engine, there’s a moment when it bites, when she can feel all that power ready to go. This is that with her own body, with his. Fill for the smutty_arts art prompt challenge, inspired by youkaiyume's  gorgeous NSFW art.





	

They’re developing a rhythm together. Max comes and goes, but he goes less often, and often now it’s on Citadel business. He’s finding ways to tell her when it’s getting too much, when he needs the desert. While he’s here, they’re getting used to each other’s habits, their routines. She knows that he always, always checks the engine before starting any work on his car, even if he’s only planning to fix a broken mirror. He knows which tool to pass her – not just what she needs for the job, but her favourites, the ones that sit well in the hand she wants to use.

They’re getting up, getting dressed, when Furiosa notices that he puts his shirt on first, realises he always does that. He’s not exactly shy about his body, but he has places he guards, some scars he’s protective about. His knee, his back. The order she dresses is dictated by her prosthetic, shirt and trousers and bodice layered so they won’t chafe or unwind, building up a foundation for the harness.

As she’s tucking her shirt in, Max comes to see if she wants help. The bodice is made so she can put it on easily, but she likes the way he offers – usually without words, never assuming. He’s doing that now, standing in reach, ready if she wants him. She nods, lets him do her fastenings.

She doesn’t know what sets it off. All at once, she’s overwhelmingly aware of him, of his physical presence, close enough that she can feel his breath on her shoulder. As he hands her the arm, his fingers brush the bare skin of her nub. It’s like a drenching wave, her nipples hard and her mouth dry, her cunt wet and clenching. She’s staring at him. He’s staring back.

Whenever she switches on the war rig engine, there’s a moment when it bites, when she can feel all that power ready to go. This is that with her own body, with his. She’s still staring as she fumbles with the buckles of her harness. When did his eyes get so dark, his mouth even plusher and redder? She licks her own lips, and for some reason that does it. She couldn’t say who moved first, but he’s pressing her against the stone wall, her flesh hand round his neck and her hips pushing up to meet him. 

She gasps when he licks a stripe up her neck, one hand on her breast, pinching at a nipple that’s already aching with hardness. She strokes her hand up into his hair, gives a little tug to pull his mouth to hers. She licks and nips at his lips before kissing him. As his mouth opens for her tongue, he pushes harder against her. 

They’re both panting, make needy little sounds as they try to get closer. Max reaches for her leathers, tugging the waistband down from under her bodice so he can get at the fastenings. Her flesh hand is already at work on his belt. Shoving her pants down, he strokes between her legs, fingers rubbing over her clit and nudging deeper, feeling her squirm and thrust against him.

She’s got good at undoing his trousers. His fastenings are uneven, the result of repeated mending, so there’s a trick to unlooping them one-handed. As soon as they’re open, she reaches for his cock. He’s already hard under her hand, his skin hot. There’s a turn of her wrist that she knows he likes, feels him twitch and grunt as her fingers curl. 

He pulls his wet hand away from her cunt, fingers tangling with hers as he slicks himself. She has her metal hand on his bum, tugging him nearer, her flesh fingers clutching his shoulder. 

Her leathers are open but still in the way. He shoves at them, pushing them down with her underwear. She kicks with one leg, wants them off altogether, ends with them tangled round one ankle and the other knee before she gets distracted by the brush of his hip against hers, the heated skin of his belly. His hand is firm on her thigh, grasping and lifting her leg up and out, opening her up for him. She hooks her foot around his leg, pulling him in, wanting him inside her.

The way he slides into her is almost too fast, almost too hard, and so exactly what she wants that she groans at it. She wraps her metal arm around him, hearing it creak as she grips him. She’s been clumsy in fastening it: as he starts to rock into her, she feels the prosthetic shift, moving loose against her nub. 

She has never been careless about this, never, not since the first arm she made for herself, when she could barely get straps but had made sure that they fit. A distant part of her is shocked at herself. She hooks her foot tighter around his leg, grinding her hips up, and lets her left arm fall by her side. As he fucks into her, the prosthetic swings and rattles against the stone wall. Max grabs her nub, holding it against the stone, keeping her steady.

His other hand lifts her thigh a little, a tiny shift of angle from good to something that she feels right through her body. Her hand is fisting in his shirt, clinging tight. His thumb is stroking her nub, his mouth back on her neck, kissing and licking until she wails. She can’t tell if they’re going fast or slow; it’s so urgent but she wants to touch all of him, feel all of him, linger and kiss and bite.

He strokes over her nub, hooks it over his shoulder. The prosthetic swings and bumps against him, but if it hurts he doesn’t show it. He’s still kissing her throat as he drops his right hand straight to her clit. He doesn’t tease, goes straight for a rhythm and a pressure that almost has her knees buckling. The noise she makes is loud enough to test the echo of her stone room. 

She’s shaking, from lust and from something like panic, a sudden understanding of exactly why Max runs. She’s spent so long guarding herself, and now she’s split open. It’s like missing a stair in the dark, the lurch and the fear of it. The panic isn’t how much she wants it; she’s been learning to accept that. It’s realising how close she already is to relying on it. 

So she pushes through it. She tugs his hair again, tipping his face up to look her in the eye. He’s still working at her clit, still pumping into her, his face flushed and his lips bitten red. She can see her own fear in his face, her own need. Her body is twitching, an urge to pull away from how overwhelming this is, even as she wraps her arms tighter around him. She presses her foot against his leg, but she can’t pull him in any harder, with her leathers still tangled and his hand on her thigh, holding her spread out against the wall. She sucks hard on the pulse in his neck, because she knows he likes it, because she needs to own what she’s feeling.

He gives a deep growl at that, panting harshly. His hand tightens under her knee, until she feels held up by his cock and his hands and the solid muscle of his torso. She shudders when his fingers press harder, tipping her over the edge. She’s sobbing at it when she feels him shiver and gasp, following her. 

He grips her harder as he comes, flops against her as he finishes. His hold on her thigh loosens, her foot sliding back to the floor. After a few moments, he pulls out of her, very carefully. Furiosa gets her harness off, hangs it on its hook. They stumble the few paces to the bench, shaky-legged, trying not to trip over undone trousers. Furiosa gets her bodice off, drops it beside her.

They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, still panting, Max leaning against her. She makes herself look at him. His eyes are darting, his head down. He looks dazed. She feels wrecked.

“Look at the state of us,” she says, is surprised by his smile. He nudges her shoulder.

“Could lick you clean,” he says, hoarse but fond. 

She shivers, because he’s very good at that, but she’s so fucked out and so raw still that she’s not sure that she could take his mouth on her. When she looks at him again, his face has gone soft.

In an awkward surge, Furiosa gets up and climbs on to him, her leathers around her ankles and her arms tight around him. She doesn’t know if she’s offering comfort or asking for it. He buries his face in her shoulder, rubs a line down her back. His touch is exact, firm and soothing, finding the places where she carries tension. She strokes her hand up through his hair, scratches gently at his scalp. With his cheek against her neck, she can feel him smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
